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If Alinor had seen Ian's face when he emerged from a house somewhat larger and more elegant than her own, she would have been saved much grief. He did not look like a man who had parted tenderly and sorrowfully from the love of his life. Amusement and satisfaction mingled with puzzlement on his face. The lady he had visited, with whom he had, indeed, once had a long and satisfactory, if quite intermittent, relationship had talked freely enough once her throat was lubricated by the very pretty and very expensive necklet Ian had brought her. Ian did not doubt her facts. Saer de Quincy, FitzWalter's bosom friend, was one of her steady clients, and she had an uncanny ability to extract information from men. Ian blushed to think of the things he had told her from time to time. What she said, however, left him thoroughly confused. |
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Apparently, there must be two quite separate plots to eliminate him. One, the one Lady Mary had so obligingly disclosed, was easy enough to accredit to the king, for it bore the mark of the way his mind worked, although it could never be brought home to him. In any case, proof against John was the last thing Ian wanted. That plota neat and deadly combination of attack by acknowledged enemies among the opposition and treachery by two or three knights enlisted under his own bannermight well have worked had it not been for the other. Ian cast wildly around in his mind for someone he could have hurt or offended enough to desire his death, who was also of such monumental stupidity as to hatch so inept a plot. |
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